


none better

by sharkfish



Series: none better, nothing but [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel in the Bunker, Everyone Is Alive, Fallen Castiel, Falling In Love, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Dean and Ca-as, sitting in a--” Charlie starts to sing-song. Dean’s face darkens into a midnight thunderstorm, enough so that Charlie’s singing abruptly cuts off, taking Kevin and Sam’s rowdiness with it.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>Castiel has no idea what is even happening, but Dean stalks out of the room without another word. Castiel’s good mood is dead in the water. The volatility of human emotions is a certain kind of hell, he thinks, like punishment for Adam’s appetite.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	none better

Since beginning to Fall, Castiel is increasingly aware that he doesn’t know how to make his face say the things it should be telling.

This is not a change from being an angel inhabiting a human vessel, but as an angel, it hadn't mattered. He didn't know how to laugh then, either, but nothing was ever funny. Now he wants to laugh at Dean's jokes, even if he doesn't completely understand them. He discovered that amusement was contagious, that seeing Dean laugh uproariously at himself was enough for Cas to feel something light up inside him like grace, but nothing happens on the outside. When he says, “That was very funny,” deadpan, Dean rolls his eyes.

“You’re still a dick, you know,” Dean says.

Dean does not say: _Even though you’re not an angel anymore_ , but it cracks at Cas like flagellation all the same. He deserves it. Once he was pure, and then he tasted the fruit bore by Dean Winchester. It felt like an original sin. It still does. He is so very guilty of so many things.

As an angel, there was no guilt, no feelings at all, just the glory of being one of God’s morning stars. There was nothing to express on a vessel’s face because anything he needed to say to humans could be done with simple human words. Do this, do that. Threats of eternal damnation. Demands to carry the child of God in your womb. As an angel, a lack of affect was almost required.

Castiel reads a book from the bunker’s library that lists this -- “lack of affect” -- as a symptom of any number of abnormal psychologies. No wonder people are unnerved by him. He is _abnormal._ Then again, he sees Dean all over those pages, too; the life of a hunter is not one that offers optimum psychological health. Hell, the life of a kid whose mother died in a horrific accident, whose father was abusive and neglectful, would fuck anyone up, with or without monsters.

Privately, he kind of likes to know that he and Dean share something other than the curses that have started sprinkling Castiel’s thoughts. They are both abnormal. They are anomalies among the human population, but maybe they could understand each other. Castiel has known Dean atom-by-atom before.

Castiel is a man who used to be a bird, so when he finds a series of books about a bird who used to be a boy, he sucks them down, the whole series, and the first time Sam and Dean see one of these books strewn about the bunker (Castiel has very little concept of putting things back where they belong, much to Sam’s chagrin), Dean flushes pink and Sam starts laughing for no reason that Castiel can discern.

It’s a joke at Dean’s expense, but when he asks what the joke is, Sam just pats Dean on the shoulder in a way Castiel has learned really says _have fun explaining this to your angel_ , and Dean grumbles and mumbles about how those books are stupid and written for kids and he doesn’t know why he even still has them, how they could’ve ended up packed neatly in a box in one of his storage units they cleared months ago.

“This boy,” Castiel says, “becomes a bird.”

“Yeah,” Dean says.

“Do you not see why that could be of interest to me?”

Dean glances up at him, then his eyes dart away. “I guess.”

“I see how they were of interest to you. These children fight monsters that often take on the bodies of humans as disguise. They lose everything they held dear, but do not stop fighting. An alien entity joins their cause--”

“You’re not an alien, Cas. Or a bird.”

“When the bird is in human form, he no longer knows how to interact with humans. His face is expressionless, like a hawk’s.”

“I mean, he _is_ a hawk. After the first book.”

Sam’s back. “Are you two really having a serious discussion about--”

“Shut up, Sam,” Castiel says, trying to copy the way Dean says it. But instead of Sam sulking, both boys burst into laughter.

Castiel feels his shoulders tense. When did he learn to do that, to bristle like a cat? They are still laughing when Castiel grabs the book and leaves the room, headed for the tiny, blank cave of his room.

He finishes the books. It only takes him a few days, only leaving his room to fulfill basic human needs, the bathroom and food and water, then back to reading. He wants to cry at the end, a feeling of deep mourning coming over him for the loss of the once-human-now-bird’s true love, but nothing happens to his face. He reaches his fingers up to feel for the tell-tale wetness of tears, but his fingertips are dry and coarse.

 

While Castiel is microwaving leftover pizza to fill his rumbleroaring stomach, Dean pounces on him, like he was waiting for Castiel to emerge from his room this whole time.

“I, uh, I have something for you,” Dean says.

Castiel turns away from the slowly turning pizza. “Yes?”

“Well. It’s not a thing, really. But a song I thought you might -- I thought you might like it. Two songs, actually. They go together. Sam tricked me into listening to some of his new age indie shit and this one -- I could play them on the stereo, or if you want the --”

“That’s fine,” Castiel says. “The stereo.”

Dean busies himself setting up the iPod on the speaker dock while Castiel sits at the table with his pizza. He doesn’t look at Dean, still deep in thought about the sacrifices made by a quintet of children.

Gentle guitar. A gentle voice. Loud, though, Dean turning up the volume until it washes over Castiel, until the voice thrums in Castiel’s head like it could be his own. He closes his eyes. _All the stars were crashing ‘round…_

But by the end, he realizes the narrator is supposed to represent Dean. _All I ever meant to do was to keep you._ When the last chord fades, he opens his eyes to find Dean staring at him, nervously.

“They loved each other very much,” Castiel says, “the crane and the man.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, quietly.

“The man could not have known.” Castiel feels something blocking his vocal chords -- is this what happens when humans try to express something real and true? No wonder Dean mocks chick-flick moments: he is terrified of them. And Castiel is getting that way, even if nothing shows on his face. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I wouldn’t have -- I never wanted you to --”

“Dean,” Castiel says. “I wanted to. If everything was going to end, I wanted you to know what you are worth to me.”

Dean’s eyes are wide and stuck to his own and they are the greenest Castiel has ever seen them. But then they break away, Dean gathers himself back up, and when he looks at Castiel again, it’s the Dean Mask. The one where smirks come easier than smiles. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says. “Better get this thing back to Sam before he loses his shit.”

And before Castiel can say anything else, Dean is out of the kitchen, the iPod in his hand. Castiel’s left alone with his cold pizza.

 

For a couple more days, Castiel lays in his bed, staring at the stack of books and replaying the songs in his head, over and over. He thinks about the way Dean was looking at him when he opened his eyes after hearing the songs. He’s not entirely sure how to read it, which is the whole problem, isn’t it? Every time he thinks he understands something about human behavior, the meaning changes. Or there’s just too many things any small look could mean.

Dean’s gentle knock pulls Castiel away from his thoughts. “Cas?” Dean says, still gentle, through the thick wooden door.

“You may come in,” Castiel says.

Dean opens the door and there’s a book in his hands. “There’s, uh, a poem I thought you might like.”

“I didn’t know you like poetry,” Castiel says, because he doesn’t know what else to.

“I’m not stupid,” Dean says, pulling the book to his chest as if to protect its contents, as if to leave, and it surprises Castiel: somehow he didn’t realize that Dean thought this about himself.

“I know,” Castiel says. “I never thought you were. Can I see the book?”

Dean takes the two quick steps to Castiel’s bed and lays the book on the little table next to it. “Maybe you could come hang out with us later? Charlie convinced Sam to watch this big geek show that’s, like, written by Jesus or something…”

“I don’t think Jesus wrote any television shows.”

“It was -- it was a joke. Not a very good one. Maybe I’ll see you later.” Empty-handed, Dean leaves. _Flees,_ Castiel kind of thinks.

Castiel picks up the book and turns to the page marked by a little torn piece of paper. On the paper in Dean’s slanted, capitals-only writing, it says: _This made me think of_ but the rest of the sentence is ripped away. The poem, though: _I am not to speak to you--I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone…_

He doesn’t know what the feeling in his hands means. And he doesn’t make it to any of the other poems in the thick book, though he would like to. He just reads the same ten lines over and over until they are stuck in his brain forever.

And then he goes to find Dean and Sam and Kevin, who are all laughing over beers and a pot of boiling spaghetti.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says. Dean’s shoulders tense -- Castiel can see it because he’s felt it now, and he knows what it means, especially when Dean doesn’t turn to face him.

“Hello,” Castiel says. “Dean, why do you think you’re stupid?”

All three stop to stare at him, but Castiel only has eyes for Dean, who is opened up and scared. “I don’t--”

“You do,” Castiel interrupts.

“Well, I’m not smart like Sam.”

Sam and Kevin very casually back out of the room. Dean looks after them like he wants to escape, too, but water is boiling and he’s holding a wooden spoon dripping red sauce on the floor. He is wearing a unicorn-patterned apron that Charlie sewed for him, and it makes little sense against the dark plaid underneath. It’s things like that that made them call Dean the Righteous Man.

“There are different kinds of smart,” Castiel says.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, turning back to his sauce. “I didn’t even graduate from high school. This is a stupid conversation. Taste this.”

He holds the spoon out to Castiel, his other hand underneath to catch the drips. Castiel gingerly sucks a bit of sauce from the end of it, humming his approval. “Your best yet.” Dean smiles, but tries to hide it. Castiel wonders what that means. “I liked the poem. And I think you’re smart.”

Dean squints at him. Castiel thinks this means he is looking for something, maybe the expressions Castiel should be making. Castiel tries to show with his eyes what he means. Dean just says, “Are you going to watch this show with us?”

This is a deflection. Dean is good at this. There are so many questions he never answers. “Yes,” Castiel says, still watching him closely.

“Go tell those idiots that dinner is ready and we’ll get to it.”

Castiel always does what he’s told, at least when it comes from Dean.

 

The tv show is about a band of outlaw misfits and a girl who becomes a ship who becomes a girl only to forget what it means to be a girl. Or possibly a cow. Castiel isn’t entirely clear on that part, but Charlie and Sam “geek out,” fighting to share the most background trivia or fan theories or stories about the cast. Dean and Castiel just lean back and listen, somehow together on the loveseat, which is a couch with only 2 cushions. (Castiel had to ask the first time he heard it.)

Castiel likes the loveseat the most, because Sam and Kevin never sit next to him if they can avoid it -- Castiel thinks this is some sort of heterosexist practice that prevents two men from ever touching -- which means Dean or Charlie. Charlie is just as likely to pounce on Castiel with a squeal and quiz him more about “all those angel shenanigans,” but Castiel has been tallying, and Dean always chooses the seat next on the loveseat with Castiel if he can help it.

This is what humans call a double-edged sword, as if this is not at least a little bit redundant. Castiel likes to sit next to Dean, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Sometimes their arms or legs touch, bumped up against each other as they settle, and neither move. Castiel has been very, very close to holding Dean’s hand, a human practice he never understood until he started becoming one.

“No, Cas,” Dean had said, laughing. “It doesn’t have anything to do with love. It’s just -- it’s a couch with two cushions, ok?”

Castiel doesn’t believe him, especially not when Dean is always drifting to sleep during long Netflix marathons and falling against Castiel’s shoulder, a warm, molten weight. Dean is doing that now, while Sam and Charlie and Kevin drunkenly sing along to the theme song on the tv. Castiel tries to look down at him without actually moving his head but for the most part he just has the smell of Dean’s hair filling his nose. It’s soft where Castiel can feel it brushing against his neck.

It’s only recently that Cas started dreaming, but his only dreams are nightmares. Would he sleep peacefully, sharing Dean’s warmth?

From across the room, popcorn starts flying. Charlie giggles, fighting with Kevin over the bowl, kernels landing in Dean’s hair. One hits his face and he jerks awake, jumping to his feet and reaching to his hip where his holster usually sits, giving Castiel a pretty good accidental bonk with his elbow on the way.

“What the fuck,” Dean says. He glances back at Castiel, glaring like he had something to do with it.

“Dean and Ca-as, sitting in a--” Charlie starts to sing-song. Dean’s face darkens into a midnight thunderstorm, enough so that Charlie’s singing abruptly cuts off, taking Kevin and Sam’s rowdiness with it.

Castiel has no idea what is even happening, but Dean stalks out of the room without another word. Castiel’s good mood is dead in the water. The volatility of human emotions is a certain kind of hell, he thinks, like punishment for Adam’s appetite.

Sam tries to call after Dean and is ignored. The humans struggle to return to the friendly cacophony, like the blank space where Dean belongs isn’t the size of an elephant.

Castiel only stays for a few more minutes before retiring to his room, pausing outside of Dean’s door to listen. As one of the heavenly Father’s warriors, Castiel could have seen into Dean’s soul without being able to see him with his vessel’s eyes; he would have heard his heartbeat through the door with his finely-tuned grace-fueled awareness. It’s no use now as a mortal fused completely to this body and it’s dulled human senses.

Dulled, that is, other than the hop-scotching of his heart, his hands tingling with an urge he can’t name nor has ever experienced before, like when Dean was asleep against him, like when he read the poem Dean had picked for him.

There’s no movement inside the room that Castiel can discern and it doesn’t look like there is any light showing under the heavy door. He could knock. He could ask what upset Dean so much. He could say, Was it me?

His hands clench at his sides. No, he definitely isn’t going to do that, if for no reason other than he’s not ready to face the answer. Every day he is human, Castiel understands himself less and less.

 

Castiel finds Sam in the library (of course). “May I borrow your shit machine?” Castiel says, his jaw set in a determined line.

Kevin snorts from across the room. Sam squints up at Castiel. “Dude,” he says, “it’s only a ‘shit machine’ because of Dean clicking on any picture of tits he sees. And sending you to ask for it doesn’t mean I’m going to let him borrow it again. Tell him to get his own.”

Castiel blinks. “I won’t click on any tits.”

Kevin and Sam both laugh this time. “We know,” Sam says, sharing a glance with Kevin.

“I’m the one who wants to use it. For some research.”

“Oh?” Sam sits up straighter, pushing the book he was reading to the side. “What are you working on?”

Castiel says, clipped, “May I borrow it?”

Sam’s eyebrows almost disappear under the shag of hair over his forehead. “Sure, man.” Sam nods towards the little leather messenger bag the laptop travels in.

Castiel picks up the bag, letting another one of his senses enhanced by humanity take over, however briefly: the leather was real, worn and supple, and he thinks it really is a thing of beauty, however odd it may be to think that about a material object.

Castiel takes the computer into his room. He locks the door behind him, unable to ignore the slight flush under his collar when he imagines Dean walking in on him doing his “research.”

Biting at his bottom lip, Castiel clicks on the search bar and slowly types: _Please teach me how to tell jokes to make humans laugh._

**Author's Note:**

> [really elegant sharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> Works mentioned:
> 
> * I'll let you figure out the book series Cas reads because if you have to ask, then you don't know
> 
> * Dean plays the Decemberists' "The Crane Wife 1&2" and "The Crane Wife 3" 
> 
> * Dean gives Cas Walt Whitman's "To a Stranger," which yes, I am unashamedly using in another story because I love it so much 
> 
> * And, of course, they are watching Firefly at the end. "My sister's a ship. We had a complicated childhood."


End file.
